Obsession
by Adrienne D
Summary: **Yaoi & consensual abuse** The obsessive and disturbing ramblings of one Son Gohan, lost in a love of both pain and pleasure.


Huh, well, this was... interesting. I'm not sure if it makes sense or not, but it is supposed   
  
to sound a bit, ah, wild and out of control. Hey, it's the obsessive, extremely disturbed   
  
musings of a Gohan I never thought could exist. o.0  
  
Warning: Hints at consensual abuse, or rather, a relationship of the pleasure/pain variety.   
  
Not for the weak-hearted, though there is nothing graphic.  
  
~*~  
  
I do not know when it all began.  
  
No, that is not true. I could probably make a rather accurate conjecture, but I   
  
simply do not find such menial facts important. My life before now, before the pain, the   
  
hate, the love held no substantial meaning. I had a life before my Ouji, this I know, but it   
  
no longer occupies any corner of my mind worthy of noticing. From the first tentative,   
  
barely there kiss - a simple brushing of the lips, really - and the exquisite pain of a   
  
vengeful, burning slap, everything except us and that which directly affected us faded   
  
away, dissolving into a background hum of blurry images and fleeting voices like so   
  
many pearly grains of salt disintegrating in a vat of crystal water, liquid and solid   
  
becoming one unassuming mass of nothing.  
  
  
  
Do not think that I did not hear them, my friends and family, but all their   
  
warnings, their blazing yellow caution signs of what I was falling into, rolled over me   
  
harmlessly, ineffectively. He had already wrapped his protective, impenetrable shield   
  
about my young, na‹ve form; there was no turning back, even had I wished to, which of   
  
course I did not. They told me he was dangerous, a twisted, malicious snake not to be   
  
trusted so freely and devotedly. Even my own father begged me to reconsider my   
  
decision. But then, how was he to know that it was not my decision to reconsider?  
  
  
  
Vegita, my prince, my love, chose me, an actuality that stills my breath and sends   
  
chills of icy lightning-fingers up and down my spine at the mere thought of it even after   
  
all this time. I was and am intensely honoured at how he could lower himself from his   
  
kingly pedestal and take me in, accept me, cherish me. And it is because of this that I   
  
willingly take the abuse rained down upon me, the bitter words that cut deep, a million   
  
knives in my tender skin, and the harsher actions, the physical hurt, that bites at my small   
  
vessel. I am not worthy of his sentiment, yet still he holds me, caresses me, beats me.   
  
And I am grateful of every second I have with him.  
  
  
  
He has imprinted himself firmly into my self, burrowing deep into the marrow of   
  
my bones and then further still until every pore leaks with his presence. Wherever I go,   
  
he remains with me. I can feel his rough, heated touch raking across my back, fingers   
  
delving deep enough to draw up rivers of crimson and soft, silky tongue lapping up the   
  
spilled treasure as if it was water and he was a dying man in a torrid desert. And then   
  
those same hands stained with my own, inferior blood, dull maroon that pales in the light   
  
of his brilliant ruby, glide up my body with the lightest of touches to cradle my face with   
  
care and affection not of this world.  
  
  
  
Yes, he is a god among mortals on this earth. He is all I have, all I want, all I   
  
need.  
  
  
  
He provides the pleasure and pain, the comfort and anguish, the love and hatred.   
  
And I, in return, bare my body and soul to his proud, critical gaze, those endless ebony   
  
orbs that deem me, me, worthy to grace with their sweeping presence.  
  
  
  
His eyes. Whoever spoke of eyes as the windows to the soul was right in so many   
  
ways. I can loose myself always in those dark holes that promise both life and death,   
  
forever swimming in the well of secret emotions he tires so hard to spirit way from view.   
  
But I can see them, and they take my breath away. He need not say it, for I know, beyond   
  
the slightest whisper of a doubt, I know that I am his forever. He has swallowed me up,   
  
taken me into his womb, crushed and hidden me within himself where no one but he may   
  
reach.  
  
  
  
And, oh sweet ambrosia, when he does reach, when he wraps those authoritarian   
  
arms about me, tearing at my skin and kissing softly, gently, like hundreds of delicate   
  
butterflies alighting on my lips, my vision turns to fire and all I see, smell, feel, taste is   
  
him. He is a raging inferno and I am the willing sacrifice to his divine directive. 


End file.
